


The River Runs Deep

by solitariusvirtus



Series: So Doth The River Run [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Falling out, Family Drama, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Invasion, Marriage, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Post-Canon, Post-GOT, Sibling Incest, War, Warging, pre-asoiaf, pre-got
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 20:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Between the vacillating predilections of the ever-displeased players in the game, the realm awaits with baited breath to see whose will is stronger. On the one side, those who have been rewarded by the King are relentless in their support. On the other hand, the alienated lion stews in his own anger, not quite defeated and not quite prepared to let go of his hopes. And there are those who are all too willing to aid.Meantime, the ruler and his family immerse themselves in the strengthening of their new-found winged weapons. And they drown in tragedies of their own making, large and small alike.Or, Lyanna Stark makes the mistake of believing herself in control, to dire consequences.





	1. Every Demon With Its Pound Of Flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the third part on an on-going series. If you are confused, it might help to read the first two parts first.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The mounds of snow trembled. Ever so slowly the covering parted to reveal a trio of squabbling children whose voice rose above the sounds of nature. "Don't be stupid," the first admonished, crossing his arms over his chest in a poor imitation of what ought to be the disapproving glare of a disappointed parent. All that managed to do was force the second child, the target of such behaviour, in a tantrum.

"You are stupid. And you let the hare escape." The catalyst of their conflict taunted them from its comfortable position upon a great boulder. Long white whiskers danced to a tune sung by a cutting gale whose goal seemed to amount to foiling the plans of hungry children followed by appropriately doling out sneers at the victims of its caprices.

The three victims, however, paid little mind to their nemesis. The third boy took the time to dart one glance towards the hare who maintained its position, clearly unimpressed with the difficult discussion held before its very eyes. His attention did not linger upon the beast, but returned to his companions. In an attempt to diffuse the situation, he intervened between the other two. "We can still catch it, if you two can spare a bow and an arrow."

Unfortunately, there was no stopping the conflict once it started. The first launched at the second, tacking him to the ground. Fingers wrapped around a skinny throat as fists turned to punching. "Oswy, let off; you're choking him," the third addressed the murderous companion, rising to tug him off.

Oswy unclenched his fingers from around the second boy's throat. The aforementioned companion took the opportunity to punch him for his efforts with enough force that landed on the unfortunate soul trying to break the fight. "Poor, little Ida; always needs the help Siward."

Meantime the hare, having grown bored with the scintillating conversation, saw itself off amid a flurry of snow, harsh words and growling stomachs, as it left behind a mere thin trail behind. Siward moaned in distress at the sight of supper scurrying away. He would have tried harder to alert his companions that they would be left without any sort of meal, but yet another night on an empty stomach was not a new experience. That did not mitigate his regret at the loss any. Siward stared after the creature with quiet longing, putting away the single broken arrow he'd been holding on to.

Father was not going to be pleased. Mother might even wring their necks. Or at the very least reward their mischief with a few well-placed slaps. He could already feel the sting forming. The worst of it was that Siward could not even find it in himself to resent her. He was hungry. So hungry that his anger grew exponentially at the antics of his siblings. "Will you stop that, you flea-ridden mongrels?" he finally snapped at the ne'er-do-wells, kicking the closest of them, which happened to be Oswy.

The boy let out a howl of pain and turned towards him with a menacing glare. The stare mellowed somewhat once he observed, with no small amount of chagrin, that Siward was not particularly impressed. His solution was to point towards their youngest brother, "He's the one who lost the hare in the first place."

It would be the height of uselessness that he point out it was a concentrated effort on both Ida's side and Oswy's own that resulted in an escaped dinner. Siward did not bother to do more than shake his head. Before he could make another sound from beyond the shadows a rock fell into the show with a strange sound. The bickering fell into sudden silence.

"What was that?" Oswy demanded. "Is someone there? Show yourself, craven!" However lurked behind the curtain of darkness gave no answer. No sound they could interpret at any rate. That did not stop Oswy from stepping forth and peering at the discarded stone.

His yell rent the silence. Oswy stumbled in his haste to return. Ida jumped a foot back, bringing his bow to his chest in an ineffectual attempt to guard himself. "That is not a stone," his younger brother insisted, pointing towards the small hole. "It's a paw."

A stone dropped in the pit of his stomach as he pulled the boy behind him. "Take Ida and hurry home. Get father." Both hesitated. "Go!" He doesn't manage to get another word in. Before them the shadows shift and that is incentive enough to get the two running.

As for himself, he pulls out a slim knife. The blade he'd filched off of one of those pesky .black brothers. His corpse would not miss it. Siward clutched his weapon harder and made his way towards the torn limb. He glanced into the depression. There lied what his brother said, a severed rabbit's paw. What could have done that?

The shadows twitched and shivered. He didn't dare press forward. So he waited. The shades drew back a smidgeon. This time something bigger hurtled towards him. A head with two long ears, like the stems of a proud flower, landed at his feet with a dull thud. His breath streamed out in a thin line of steam as panic gripped him. Lost for words, his eyes darted from the unknown waiting hidden behind the blackness to the proof of violence resting at his feet.

He could not stand there waiting for father. He would be dead before long, chopped to pieces like the hare. Whoever had done it waited in silence, to grab him. He could not wait; the thought hammered itself inside his head with surprising force. It was more than enough for his feet to act without his command and turn him around. The snow hampered his advance, wrapping around his legs, tugging, trying to keep him in place. He was having none of that.

Before long there was only the sound of his heavy breathing as he made his way down the winding path. No snow came down from the skies; a small mercy given he had no desire to be stranded in the middle of a dangerous situation with the knowledge that a few moments would be more than enough to erase any signs of his passing and any hope at salvation. As matters stood, he had the hope that he might run fast and far enough to lose whatever stalked behind.

For a brief moment temptation swamped him. The urge to glance over his shoulder hit him with astonishing force. It was almost enough to have his head swivelling. To his great fortune, however, he managed to rein in his curiosity. Might as well do himself the favour of retaining his ignorance.

As he dashed across the snow-covered distance, his eyes began to make out the narrow forms of standing people. Relief tugged at his heart. The camp had been set up. He saw of his brothers waving, the arrow in his hand striking towards the skies. His legs stopped pumping, speed decreased.

There was no time to enjoy the newfound safety too much though before his mother rounds up on him, her frown telling him all he needed to know about her mood. "No luck on your hunt?" The twinge of regret snapped, pain lacerating at him, though 'twas not the sort he had any hope of making it disappear.

"Sadly." He had no need to voice anything else as his mother took him by the arm.

"Did you see father on your way?" Ida questioned, the arrow he'd been holding on to deposited a little distance away. He considers warning his brother against leaving it there where it might be covered by snow or broken by a careless step, but he does not bring it up. "He left after we returned."

That stopped him short. "I did not." His brother paused as well, his leg raised as though to take a step forth. But his turned towards mother. She sported a slightly concerned loo.

"Oswy went with him. They should return before long." Before the sun set.

Siward lifted his gaze towards the heavens. The rosy light of a slowly-dying sunset cascaded over the sharp points of trees, old and young alike, gliding over the shimmering blanket of snow and across the fur-covered heads and shoulders. It would not be long until they were plunged into darkness. That sent shivers down his spine. Alas, the time for such worries was past. Mother kept her eyes on him.

"It might be a pack of wolves," he allowed sensibly. "If we warn the others, we could bank a greater fire."

"Ida, find Ulfcytel and tell him about the wolves. I'll speak to Seawara, see if she can plead with the gods." Siward spat upon the ground at those words. His mother flashed him a hard glare. "None of that. Be off with you."

As if the hag would actually successfully reach the gods without proper sacrifice. They'd given an elk's hide the last and naught came of it. He sneered, but made no move to stop his mother. No sense in trying to argue with mother though. He moved closer to their possessions and picked up a blunted spear.

His preparations at an end, he saw himself away with a wave to Ida who observed him from a safe distance. His poor brother; forever the babe and target of Oswy's less than kind-hearted pranks. Would there ever come a day when he would respond on his own. Siward shook his head at the thought and gripped the spear tighter while checking for the knife he'd tucked away so absent-mindedly he had no memory of having done so.

The footprints in the snow were easy enough to follow. With little to disturb the trail he was confident he could reach father before long. The trails stretched out before him, cutting through a split mound of snow. From time to time he came upon smaller footprints as though Oswy could not quite manage to follow in father's footsteps. He smiled and covered the step with his own. No sense in trying to make yet another path.

The snap of cracking branches brought him out of his reverie. He glanced ahead and then to the side. There was no one about. 'Twas all quiet. He shrugged and turned fully around. Still, he was to be disappointed. Ida had not followed. Mother had not either. Siward scratched the back of his head. The spear resting against his shoulder left the comfort of its spot. He trust it tip-forth, "If you are there, show yourself."

As expected, no one met his challenge. He allowed himself a moment longer before returning the weapon to its previous position and returning to tracking down his kin. The trail led him a clearing. A small break in the unrelenting uneven rows of trees. Confused, Siward tried to find the direction they'd taken but no tracks came to his aid. "Father! Oswy!" No depressions in the snow either, to his relief.

"Where are you?" A stray ray of light fell into his eye as he darted to the side at the sound of movement opposite him. "Is anyone about?" The echo answered him with relish. He craned his neck for a better view. Might be if he climbed one of the trees. It was worth a try.

Siward searched for the perfect tree. It did not take long to find an appropriate specimen. With no further thought, he began working upon the task. His limbs carried him to one of the lower branches. Even at that unimpressive height he was still high enough to catch a glimpse of the smoke ribbons stretching out towards the clouds, dark smudges against the brighter tones heralding the sun's death. No sign of father or Oswy thought. He cursed at the ill-fortune and debated whether he should climb higher or make his way down. Unease settled upon his shoulders as his decision saw him climbing down.

Once upon solid ground he shuffled his feet, uncertainty gnawing at his insides. Where to go from there; father would protect his brother, of that he had little doubt. But where were those two? Nigfht was fast closing in and if they did not return to camp, to the safety of the banked fire, the gods only knew what fate would befall them. Especially considering their sacrifices had been scarce of late. The tamest of gods would spurn their supplications in such conditions, and rightly so.

The longer he contemplated the matter, the harder it became to remain still and waiting. Even with his spear, he was scarcely prepared should foes happen upon him. His frown deepened as the snow mounds moved, reminding him of a similar feat he'd accomplished but a short while ago. His senses were acting out as well. In the absence of sound, his mind provided all manners of explanations, suppling monsters and creatures to make up for the lack of companionship, thus, it came as no surprise to Siward that he gripped his blunt-tipped spear with renewed vigour, holding it up in warning to whoever happened by. He glared at the shivering knoll.

All movement stopped and his mind lost interest in frightening half his years down the proverbial drain. He could return. Thought father would likely track the wolves, he doubted there would be any fighting. They'd devoured a hare. Or more. The gods only knew how many gthere had been. 'Twas better that Oswy and Ida scared it off; no one wanted to be trailed by a tail of wolves. Of all things to bring back to camp.

He sat down upon the ground. A few minutes longer would not hurt. He would wait by the tree and should no one appear, he'd conclude his father might have taken another route. There were, after all, more than one way to circle around and reach camp. It had made all the difference when they'd chosen the pot. It had taken their scouts a good few tries to map out the paths.

But the longer he sat in the cold, the less easy it was. The sounds returned with a vengeance, his mind needling and prodding, whispering about the things that went bump in the night. Not a pleasant experience in the least. He supressed the sliver threatening to shake him and closed his eyes against the bubbling terror.

If only there were someone about. Anyone. Even one of those scavengers would do. He could release all the pent up frustration and hunger. Not to mention it was not unusual to find impressive treasures upon those thieves. They lived for gathering them, after all. Just the last time his mother managed to win a sharp short knife for her efforts. It was craftsmanship such as he had never seen before. Somewhat like his own; but he did not, as a rule, rob the dead. The brother of the Night's Watch had been the first he had taken anything from and he did not plan to do so again. Winning something in a fight was another matter altogether.

Thoughts consumed him as his lids grew heavier and heavier still. He braced his forehead against his knees and dragged in frigid air. It stuck down to the back of his throat, a reminder that he was not to fall asleep in such a place. But he could not help it. The distinctive lack of motion suggested a certain state of retirement. A state of peace even. He opened his eyes to the best of his abilities. The hillock was no longer before him. It had moved slightly to the side.

Coming to with a start, Siward's gaze trained upon the spot. Had he paid too little attention to it? Might be the lack of sleep, might be the hunger; some things interfered with one's abilities and even the best of intentions brought a whole slew of troubles. He rolled his shoulders and stood gently, tugging the spear from his vicinity. Walking slowly towards the knoll, he raised the butt of his weapon and brought it down, a strong jab. It crashed into the body of snow, sinking with ease until it came up against an obstacle.

Cured of his fatigue, Siward's attention concentrated upon his finding. It felt almost as thought he'd hit rags and bones. It was not stone, for it was not precisely embedded within the earth. Which could only mean that he's come upon another settlement. An abandoned one? Had someone attacked?

Kneeling, he pushed away the snow, digging until he came upon an all-too-human form. Tangled of red hair framed what he supposed to be a pale face. Siward turned the body around. It was a woman. A small, young woman. The soft rise of her belly produced a pang within him. "Poor thing," he murmured, pushing the hair away so he might better make out her features.

She'd been pretty enough, with full lips and wide-eyes. Pockmarks were scattered across her face. Her flaming locks had no shine, nor had they protected her against the cruel hand fate dealt her. So much for those born under lucky stars. "They took the babe as well." He should carry her back and burn the body. Flaming locks ought to be enough of a sacrifice even for the most demanding of gods. And she carried a babe. Surely it would count for aught.

Turning her yet again, Siward picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. He bent to pick up his spear. Father and brother must have long returned. He was the only one lingering about, worrying the others no doubt. His fingers sank into the fur of her garb, gripping tighter. It was not as though she'd began struggling. If he hurried he would get back before the sun had completely set. His pace changed to accommodate such an outcome.

Before he'd taken ten steps, searing pain erupted in his shoulder.

Along with the agony, a scream sprang forth, its shrill tones reverberating through the branches. The weight dropped from his shoulder, pulling him along. Blunted fingertips pressed into his flesh, the painful dig against his wound rewarded with an incoherent swear and a shove. The body rolled away and a groan reached his ears. Siward dared a glance her way only to see those cold ice-blue eyes regarded him as well. Her mounting interest was marked by the way she awkwardly rose upon her elbows and knees, scuttling towards him with impressive speed. Without a second thought de delivered another blow, to her face, the worn sole of his boot meeting soft flesh. The crunch of broken bones suggested she was not impervious to blows.

Pushed back by the strength of his kick, the woman's face fell into a layer of snow. No blood in sight; his suspicions regarding her state flourished. Siward rushed to his feet and approached her, spear in hand. He impaled her, the tip piercing through her back, pinning her to the ground. The woman flailed, her limbs contorting in an attempt to reach the shaft. Instead, she received another kick to the head.

It was an undead creature, no doubt. His boot came down upon her skull, again and again as he broke the bones beneath his blows, leaving behind smithereens and bits of brains. Her hands, however, did not stop moving. No matter that she was a headless, her grip upon his ankle was firm when she finally caught him. The yank had him tumbling to the ground, his head hitting the hardness beneath.

Pain rang in his skull. He scrambled backwards as fast as he could, tugging his ankle free of her hold. "Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" His screams filled the clearing, twilight chill seeping through his furs and boiled leather. "Let go, you bitch!"

Unfortunately for him, she must have lost all manner of comprehension after her death. Once he managed to shake her off, however, he was back on his feet. Eyes wide open, he searched his vicinity. But it was much too late for him. The creatures had already surrounded him.

The impaled woman managed to unpin herself off of the ground. Her companions, meantime, jumped him. The first of them clenching his fingers in Siward's hair, tugging with such force flesh gave way. They were not trying to capture him, he realised. Not alive, that was, else the tugging on his limbs would turn to binding, not to unbearable pressure. "Nay! Stop!" He could feel his skin ripping apart, thin layer crumbling as though it were dry leather. "Let go!" He struggled to the best of his abilities, kicking and flailing. Before long his foot was caught and teeth sank into him.

This was to be his end. A meal for unholy beasts. A finger pressed upon his eye; it sank into the socket. His screams were lost in the din of a host of bodies milling about.

Before his other eye could share a similar fate, he was dropped and the crowd parted. Or rather it was forced to part as one of their own, a heavy, lumbering creature, fell from height, landing half on Siward, the weight enough to have him sinking into a bed of snow. His grunt of pain went equally unheard. Something caught his attention though.

A spark of gold flittered at the corner of his eye before disappearing. It was not gone long though. Recognition filled his mind. Fire. Someone had come after him. Someone was burning the corpses. He would be avenged, at the very least; he would not suffer the indignity off resting a mass of masticated meat in the afterlife.

His lips curled. It hurt even to smile. Somehow, though, he found the strength to push away at the hands gripping him, to kick and tear himself free, to flee the ring of tormenters. He fell not a moment after, face sinking into refreshingly cool layers of frost. The terror did not recede, but it allowed him to rise, to face the headless woman and pull out his spear.

And then he saw his saviour.

It was not father. Nor mother. A mounted figure brandished torch. Whereupon h could find such a thing Siward was not certain, nor did he care. What did matter was that the unclean were being decimated before his eyes. The wood of his spear would burn was well.

"Give me fire!" he yelled at the man and his elk. The creature turned its head towards him. Siward sprang in their direction, dodging corpses left and right. The flame met wood, and wood burst into flame.

He turned upon his foe and brought justice down upon their heads in a rain of fiery blows. Dry skin and bones ignited with ease. It was almost as though they'd been filled with straw. He did not stop for the painful burning in his arm, or the bleeding wounds, or the exhaustion which threatened him. His throat constricted around a frustrated yell when one of them managed to grab him. The butt of his spear set flame to long hair and worn pelts. "You cannot have me!"

That was it. The last of them fell to the flames, dropping to its knees. And there he stood, vision impaired, limbs sore and bruised, staring with hate at the defeated.

His own head spun. His senses swam. He too was soon upon his knees.

A weight pressed against his shoulder causing him to grunt. "Come to!" a smooth voice urged. "If you perish now, they shall have you after all. And you have fought so bravely to avoid it." He forced his one eye open. All that he could make out was a blurry form garbed in tatters. "Were you here alone?"

"Father," he croaked, "Brother. Village." It would take too much effort to explain. He tried to nod towards the direction of the settlement. He'd been so caught up that he had not even thought about them. Were they safe? Had the monsters reached them as well?

"They will not refuse you rites then," the stranger said, bending over him. "I will take you to them." Something blunt pressed against his lips. "Drink. It will help." He opened his mouth. A thick, sweet concoction slid down his throat as his head was carefully held up. "More." He forced himself to accept. "Just a bit more." A protest caused some of it to dribble downwards; he'd no recourse but to swallow what filled his mouth. The pressure disappeared.

He was heaved upon the saddle unceremoniously. Just as well that the stranger thought to carry him back as a sack of grain. He could not stand upright, lest someone tie him. And there was no rope. His one eye landed upon the shifting shadows. Fright caused him to struggle. Nay; he had only just broken free.

Yet what came out of the shadows was no such being. Instead, a frail old man wrapped in a moth-eaten, hole-filled cloak staggered at the elk's side. He too had just one eye. Siward felt a kinship swell to life. That was, until he managed to detect what stood upon the man's shoulder.

It was a bird. Dark of plumage, with a sharp beak, and beady eyes. Three of them. One more than any bird should have the right to. As for the man, his one eye was the colour of freshly spilled blood, the same colour as the stain upon his leathery skin. His ugly face remained in Siward's line of sight as the stranger came closer as well. They both looked at him.

"He hasn't long," the newly arrived spoke, eyeing him with vague disinterest.

"I cannot leave him to such a fate. I ride for the settlement, 'tis close by." The determination in his voice gave Siward hope. He would die with some dignity. "Wait not long and follow. We shall pass them by without alerting anyone."

"I can tell them," he managed, startling one and surprising the other; "to leave you be." Every single word was as the end of a blade stuck in his throat.

"If you must," the second man allowed, his bird hopping from one foot to another. "But I might tell them as well. 'Tis but a small thing, after all."

"What mean you?" the stranger stepped closer to him, as though to shield him. Siward tensed.

"The man is obviously dying. He should not be made to feel as though he owes us a thing." Us? As far as he knew, 'twas the stranger he had a debt towards. The one-eyed man turned fully towards him. "I can make this painless for you. After what you have gone through, you deserve rest."

The stranger was silent. The decision had come into his hands. Dare he accept the man's solution, or ought he persist? What did that matter, wondered Siward when he would die. He could feel the weight of his flesh dragging him down.

In the end he shook his head, his resolve winning out. "On my own."

The one-eyed crow-master nodded his understanding. The reins of thee elk were gripped by the stranger, meantime, who pulled the beast in his wake. The docile animal had no complaints at the dead weight of him or the cold. Siward closed his eye and allowed himself to relax. He had done battle; only the gods knew what awaited after. The low murmur of voices reached his ears. Those had not yet been affected.

"It is unwise to press further on," the stranger's voice rose. "No matter what you think you might accomplish, we would never make it past the gates."

"I need not make it past the gates." What a strange thing to say. Did they plan of raiding villages in the kingdoms? Just the two of them? Nay, that could not be it. Yet still, they spoke of impenetrable gates. What other choices were there?

"You were banished. The moment you chose this, if memory serves." The issue with old comrades was that no matter what one did, half of what they said would be lost, the wealth of meaning behind it inaccessible to newcomers. As matters stood, he could only hope one of them would do him the great favour of explaining. All he heard, though, was a queer snort. "Do as you will. But do not expect that I will come to your rescue."

"And after I have done my best for you. Goes to show how far your gratitude extends," the crow-master chided, though no fire behind his words could he detect. "Would you have them so, harasses and hunted, just because you could not stomach to aid me? See her power grow? It has been mere hours. Think you she will stop in the absence of light. No one is yet prepared to face this foe. We need more time."

And he needed some manner of understanding what it was they spoke of. Interest was a cruel mistress, forever poking and prodding for answers. "You and I are not bound by their sufferings. It would serve you better to not pretend. I haven't a heart to impress." The vaguest of vague replies. He very nearly chuckled at the mounting frustration. But there it was, he would not find out what those two spoke of. "Well, what say you to that?"

"You judge me cruelly." Despite the playful tone, there was something about the statement which left Siward cold. His eye opened instinctually, searching for the two men before him. The torch's frail light was enough to make out their features by. Or those of the crow-master, that was, for the other's expression was obscured by dark rags.

"Not cruelly enough," the other huffed, the torch trembling as it changed hands. "You will not give up your plan?"

The crow-master shook his head. "I cannot. We all have our burdens. And this is mine." Indeed, it seemed there was naught to be gleaned by listening in on their conversation. Siward allowed his mind to drift.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of the month, time for new chapter. For all you three people who asked. Enjoy.


	2. Under The Linden Tree

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blood gleamed in the low light; the thick coat of crimson fell in sheets and folds. The bleating of the poor lamb had ceased not long past. The priestess was skilled with a blade, he would give her that. Marwyn observed the woman as she cleaned the knife in a small bowl of murky water. The dull grey-brown took on a more reddish hue. "And you are certain of this great fortune awaiting me?" he questioned, half-amused.

The woman turned sharp eyes upon him. "You must not doubt the will of the gods," she warned. "Believe you me, the great ones work through so few of us, but your aura leaves me in no doubt." He offered a brief smile.

She turned her back towards him and grabbed hold of a torch. Her hand shook slightly. A few hours had come and gone with the many preparations. She finally managed to hold onto the damned thing long enough to set the lamb to flame. Pristine wool burst into a myriad warm shades before decaying into a dull grey.

"How am I ever to repay you?" An exciting addition to Oldtown's collection of temples, the small establishment left much to be desired. It was crammed and the smell of decaying flesh lingered in the air. The butcher who had vacated it must have left his wares to spoil so as to better spite whoever came after him.

The low hissing and popping sound interrupted the silence settling between them. The woman eyed his sacrifice. He'd paid good money for that lamb. Whatever fat was upon its bones, it slowly leaked without painting over the healthy coat of blood. She would certainly have her work cut out for her scrubbing the spot clean.

"As I told you, a small fee is all that is required." So she had. Marwyn reached for the small bag of coins he kept upon his person. Reaching within, he pulled out a couple of pieces and beckoned her over with a motion of the head.

She came with nary a complaint, her hand outstretched. What might have been fine skin presented old and fresh scars, some of them an angry red. He placed the coins within her palm and closed her fingers over them in a slow motion. "What would a man have to pay so he might learn of his enemy's death?"

"To learn of it?" Suspicion clouded the priestess' eyes. He nodded vigorously. "It depends upon the enemy. The travelling ones require a heftier fee." The doubt bled away ever so slightly. One of the bones cracked with a sharp shriek. Marwyn glanced upon it once before returning his attention to the woman. "Aught in the manner of a big game should do."

"I see. And how would the gods answer such a request?" Her mouth drew in a thin line like the strings of a purse. "I have an interest, you see, for I fancy myself a bit of a scholar. 'Tis most important to me."

"A scholar," she echoed, her expression softening. "Aye. 'Tis aught I understand. I can only say that the gods answer in whichever manner they would. It might be a vision within the flames, or one brought upon the wings of sleep. The answer you search for can only be satisfied by going through with the ritual."

"You are most helpful. Now that you have so patiently answered all of his questions, I no longer feel that small fee covers enough of your efforts. Allow me to at least offer you aught to wash the dust from your throat."

"You needn't," her assurance came even as her eyes brightened in that way he saw upon those enamoured with fine reds. His guess had been correct after all. Marywn reckoned she was not yet in her third decade of life and still the sallow skin and bloated shape ruined any effect of youth.

"I insist. Come. There is a nice little place." He jingled his bag of coin. "And I've enough on me to show proper gratitude."

Torn between what he did not doubt were two perfectly valid instincts, the priestess hesitated a few moments before resolve steeled both her eyes and spine. She straightened. "Aye. I should like it if you would show gratitude."

"Wise choice." He motioned for her to walk before him. "'Tis not far from here."

She did as he bade, pulling a frayed and tattered cloak up from its seat upon a chest which had seen better days. She wrapped the protective layer around her form, pinning it with a great round brooch in an odd shape. He traced the pattern with his eyes. Aye, that had to be the deity of death. An odd goddess to honour when fertility or life would have been more suited. He said not a word upon the strange token, in spite of its oddity or the fact it was the most costly piece he'd seen thus far in the small temple.

Together the two of them made their way without. Adam waited without along with Teak. If they thought anything about him taking the woman along, neither seemed interested in sharing their thoughts. Just as well, as he intended to fully recompense their patient waiting in the cold. A few drinks should set them to rights.

With that in mind, they repaired to the Checkered hazard.

The tavern was busy at that particular hour, many of its patrons seated, drinks before them. Marwyn found for them some empty spots before hailing one of the serving girls over. Bess, they called her, as well he recalled. Blessed Bess; he appreciated the wide smile she had for them.

"You have returned," she said entirely too excitedly. Her eyes moved from the more general picture to Adam specifically, before she pushed away any personal preferences in favour of good coin. "What can I get for you?"

"Your best wine for me and my companions, Bess," he ordered, throwing her a couple of coppers. "And make it quick."

"Aye. I'll see that I do." She was as good as her word, returning in short time with a laden tray.

If she continued upon the path, she might well become a most celebrated young woman in these parts. The owner, he knew, was looking to expand business and the gods knew with such a worker like Blessed Bess, he would find the task easier than he'd envisioned.

Small talk was made amongst them, for nary a great subject had its place amid such company. Marwyn kept a pleasant disposition about his own person, ordering more and more wine as they advanced into the night. He, of course, took care to drink less than he plied his companions with. At the very least one of them ought to keep a clearer head. There would be time enough to drink his fill once he was back in his quarters. Lifting the cup to his lips he slowly sipped at his wine. 'Twas a good brew. Better than the one they'd served last.

Might be he ought to have a word or two with the owner himself. He perished the thought about as soon as it entered his mind. Marwyn stood, nary an explanation coming from his lips expect a telling glance in his eyes. Adam snorted and drained the rest of his cup, wiping the excess moisture with the back of one grimy hand. His eyes found Bess in the crowd and Marwyn was relieved knowing he could count on the man. He pulled the bag of coins from his belt and placed it in the man's hands.

Once without, he stepped over the fallen body of a drunkard with a low chuckle. Come morn, the man would wish he'd not drained the cellar. His feet carried him only a few steps further before a figure broke free of the shadows as it hurtled towards him.

"Archmaester, we have been searching long for you," the young boy managed in between long, drawn-out pants. He brought a fist up to his chest, allowing it to hover over his, Marwyn presumed, wildly beating heart. "You must come quickly."

"Calm yourself, young Tymor and explain to me why the haste." The man's eyes very nearly bugged out at his request. Where he not taken aback by the behaviour, Marwyn might have laughed at such a display. As matters stood, he barely found the wherewithal to stand still.

"We have been summoned by His Majesty, the King. The matter is urgent and we've already wasted much time." The words had the impact of a hammer stroke. Marwyn felt momentarily cast adrift, not for the great honour that was being bestowed upon him, but rather for the lost change to delve deeper into the mysteries of small, yet-unknown faith.

Alas, he could not refuse a king. Especially not his own. "You ran all the way here?"

"A wheelhouse awaits us. I thought it better not to bring it closer." Smart lad. Marwyn nodded his head. His companions had been left coin. It ought to last them long enough.

Without further ado, he complied to the unspoken request put forth by the acolyte and began following at a brisk pace. Drink had not mellowed him enough that the road was arduous. A wise decision on his part to keep his wits about him, after all. Marwyn climbed into the wheelhouse, sitting opposite Tymor.

"Tell me, what exactly is it that the King wishes of us?" He must have heard a thing or two by the paleness he exhibited. And if he did not miss his guess, 'twas not with great relish he'd come after him. "And why am I being summoned."

"I only know the requested was made by name, archmaester. As to why, my guess is as good as yours." And so he did not manage to find out anything.

Marwyn was not worried nevertheless. He folded his hand in his lap and hummed silently to himself as the different scents made it through the lattice window. Some he recognised, other he noted with intrigue, wondering whether he should make a night's exploration of it once the matter with the King was over. It would do him good to focus on aught not quite as draining as sacrifices. It might, if naught else, provide him with an evening of leisure.

'Twas not long until they reached the High Tower. The beacon still lit atop stood guard over city and ships alike. A magnificent sight to wash the dreariness from one's eyes. Marwyn admired the structured for a few moments as was his custom. The cleverness of man never failed to awe him. He glanced to Tymor only to find the acolyte fretting over their lateness. A smart lad, but not at all wise, Marwyn decided.

Alas, he could not put an end to the boy's antics and thus found himself hurried towards the awaiting servant holding torches. He recognised neither man but supposed that was his fault for having not taken the chance to visit with Leyton Hightower. In short time he was brought within and led to a door guarded by a fierce looking knight. By garb a Kingsguard, the man did not question his presence, but rapped a couple of time upon the door.

It opened and he was instructed to enter.

Marwyn had seen the King once. It had been long ago when he'd still been his father's heir, little more than a sprig. How time flew. He entered, finding himself growing more and more curious. Not only at the summon, but at the absence of life around them, a shocking occurrence considering 'twas the King who had come. Tymor entered in his wake.

The door shut with a small sound and Marwyn was finally afforded more than a simple glimpse of the King. The gauntness of his face was rather telling. They'd been summoned to some manner of mischief, that Marwyn was certain of. He bowed, trusting that the acolyte would do the same without having to be told.

"You are Archmaester Marwyn?" Rhaegar Targaryen questioned, eyes training on him without flickering to the other.

"Aye. That would be me." He straightened, unabashedly meeting the man's gaze. "Your Majesty wished to see me."

A small, cruel smile twisted the man's lips. "Nay. You are wrong. I'd hoped to never have cause." Marwyn found himself grinning back. "Yet here I am."

The door opened yet again, admitting within a woman Marwyn did know. "Archmaester, you have arrived. We despaired of you ever doing so." Malora Hightower gave what he supposed to be an assuring nod towards the King. "We may then begin."

"Certainly we shall, but if I might," he intervened, "what is it that we are doing?"

In answer, Malora moved to the bed in the chamber and drew the curtains out of the way. Marwyn's eyes sharpened upon the unmoving small creature at the centre of it. The boy's lips were blue. He then looked to Malora. "My lady, you do not mean for us," he trailed off for her eyes told him she did indeed. Deciding it would do not good to try dissuading her, he turned to the King. "Your Majesty, surely you do believe such things are possible."

"Lady Malora assures me the possibility exists." Malora meantime grabbed hold of his arm, pressing down strongly.

"Surely Your Majesty understands that some conditions need to be met." Whoever the child was, the King would doubtlessly turn his back upon the project as soon as he heard what was required. Marwyn decided he would put forth the most dangerous method he'd ever heard of.

"I will do my best to provide whatever is needed. Let us hear it, archmaester." Something in the man's voice gave him pause. It was an odd note, one he'd not heard in a long time.

"If one wishes to take back what the Stranger has taken hold of, it is imperative they journey to the realm of the dead. 'Tis a perilous thing and I have yet to find the man who returned victorious. And the price itself is enough to stop many fro even attempting it."

"The price does not matter to me."

"If Your Majesty allowed me to finish; 'tis not a matter of coin, but rather of sacrifice. This who have departed seldom wish to return and if they do, it might well be their strength has left them. The child will need to feed off of your own life. Even with the best odds to consider, Your Majesty would still give up decades of his life. And should your endeavour be met with failure, there is no return."

The man shook his head. "Some things are worth sacrificing for. I only need to know if you are capable of aiding with the preparations."

"There is one more matter," he continued as though he'd not heard him speak. "There must be blood between the one undertaking the journey and the dead." A hush fell over the chamber. Malora looked to the King and then back to him. Marwyn, however, did not retract the words.

"Are you capable of seeing it through, though?"

How curious. He'd not hear any rumours about a bastard. In fact, he'd never heard a thing about a mistress.

But then he'd not paid mind to rumours, had he? Not the ones concerning the royal family, in any event. Marwyn nodded. "If the conditions are met." Malora , while less obvious in her reaction, was visibly taken aback. She must not have known that small detail. Or might be she protested to his suggested method. He would have to ask. Meantime he'd do best see to the preparations. "Tymor, have the servants bring salt. My lady, I take it you've a bit of quicksilver for our use."

"Indeed. I can provide you with a goodly quantity." She left to retrieve it. That was one thing she would not allow other to touch.

"Your Majesty, if I might inspect the body." His request was met with approval. Seeing no reason to delay once he'd agreed to embark upon this foolish errand, Marwyn approached the bed. He drew away the covers. "You've kept him in ice?"

"It was the only way I could think of to slow the natural processes."

The stiffness of the limbs had long since passed. He moved an arm, testing the flexibility before pushing back the sleeve of the boy's tunic. The skin beneath had taken on a worrying hue. "'Tis good you have arrived when you have, Your Majesty. Even with all my knowledge, I would be unable to bring back something the much crueller decomposition."

Tymor brought in the bags of salt, setting them upon the ground. He glanced towards him for further instructions. "'Tis not difficult, lad. You take out as much as you can fit within a fist and fill the boy's mouth."

"What for?" questioned the child's father.

"It will keep malevolent forces at bay. Or so we are assured. Should another soul attempt to supplant the boy's at the appropriate moment, the salt should provide enough of a barrier to impede the outcome."

Tymor, whose face looked about as pleased as a man hearing he was to be hanged, set to work. It was time to turn his attention to the King. "Your Majesty, you understand, I hope you understand, you too shall have to put your life in my hands."

"How am I to make it to this land of the dead?" Either the man determined, or he was mad. Neither option warmed him overly. Marwyn closed his eyes for a brief moment.

"I shall prepare a draught. It will send you into a death-like sleep. With any luck it will be enough to trick the Stranger into opening the gates. By and by, I shall make certain your heart had not stopped. The rest, I fear is up to yourself, Your Majesty. I can but provide the most elementary knowledge."

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was not too late after all. Rhaegar breathed out in relief after the chamber emptied of archmaester and acolyte. Marwyn had left to find a suitable spot to perform his preparations and his helper was presumably to watch and learn. He looked over at Jon. A small hill of salt peaked from between his lips, the rough grains glinting in the firelight.

He thought back upon what he'd leaned. The man could well use this chance to murder him. And Jon would be lost as well. And yet specific terms had to be fulfilled for the strange magic to work. Had he been able to reach some of his more trusted creatures, there might have been aught else. While he'd not studied the occult with as much passion as he had his history, Rhaegar knew there was more than one spell purported to bring back the dead. What Marwyn had presented to him was the most dangerous one. Yet by far the most rewarding as well. And might be the only one which would work for his son.

As for other matters, he had written to his lady mother. If he should fail, he was certain she would care for his children. He placed a hand upon the boy's cheek. The skin was cold. As expected. Somehow though he still found himself shocked at the irrefutable proof. Of all the ways for the gods to show their ire, did it have to affect an innocent?

A low sound alerted him of another's arrival. Rhaegar looked over his shoulder. Lady Malora Hightower entered his line of vision. Malora the Maid they called her. Some said she was mad. "I have brought the quicksilver, Your Majesty." She must have spent some time measuring it. "Archmaester Marwyn tells me they are almost ready as well. I thought to sit with Your Majesty awhile, if that should please."

"Your are most welcome to, my lady. Were it not for your graciousness, none of this would be possible." She inclined her head but declined to comment. Instead she took an empty chair. "There is another request I must make of you. It concerns Jon. You've heard the archmaester's words. I would much appreciate that none of this make it beyond the walls."

"Of course. Your Majesty exposed himself to great risk. I should hate adding to it. Be assured that I shan't say a thing. Could I be permitted a question?" What could it hurt? Rhaegar allowed her as much. "What makes this child so very special?"

"There have been many ills in his life I could not stop. The last of them saw him dying. I cannot, I will not accept that I am to turn my back upon him in this. With the risk of joining him in death, I would rather be able to say I tried."

Understanding settled upon her features. There was aught understated about her beauty. The soft gold of her curls, along with the blue of her eyes, of course, made for a striking visual effect. Yet he'd never heard praise raised to her. "I wish I knew what it was to hold such affection for another. Nay; do not think to deny it. I am much too old and have seen more than you'll ever know, Your Majesty, to take as duty was is love."

"One need not exclude the other." After all, he would do the same for any other of his children. "Tell me, my lady, have you ever seen among these many things, a man defeating the Stranger?"

Her chest rose and fell as she sighed deeply. "I am afraid I have not. The Stranger is a greedy thing, Your Majesty. It shan't appreciate having its prize ripped away. I fear there are certain bits of knowledge the good archmaester has not shared with you."

"Which would be?"

"I am by no means the retainer of any such information, however there is might be a thing or two I've heard." He nodded for her to go on when she gave him an inquisitive stare. "The danger much greater than he said. Even with the salt, Your Majesty, you must understand that some of the dead are restless. Those will be the ones attempting to trick you at any moment. And if you should bring another soul instead if the child's."

A horrifying thought. "I know my son." Well enough, though, that he would not fall victim to trickery? That had to be seen. "What else?"

"Some tales speak of those brought back to life. If done incorrectly, it might present repercussion difficult to reconcile to. Might be the most worrying is that the person in question slowly becomes more and more detached from the world. They long for the peace of death. Some might even embrace the possibility of returning to the halls of the dead. Do you understand, Your Majesty?"

"He fought to survive, you know. For a time I thought he would as well. I cannot explain to myself why it is that he succumbed." Jon had surely not wished to leave them. There were still so many things to do. "As for returning, someday he will, of course. But it is my hope it shan't be for a long time."

"A hope I am certain every parent shares. And I hope Your Majesty is successful in this endeavour. But if the worst should happen?"

"I have thought of that." He turned to the small table upon which he'd left a few missives. "Should I fail, I want these delivered. Rhaenys and Aegon are to be taken back to King's Landing, of course, and placed in the care of my lady mother. The rest is well and truly out of our hands, my lady."

"I will do as Your Majesty instructs." He handed her the letters.

"My gratitude." And then there was naught more to say. They looked at one another, the silence between them growing in length. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach warned of impending doom.

The moment was interrupted by the return of the archmaester. As though impervious to the tension in the chamber, he addressed Rhaegar, "All preparations have been carried through, Your Majesty. If you have not changed your mind, then we may repair to the lower levels."

"Of course I have not changed my mind." To drive his point home he picked up Jon's limp form, cradling the boy in a gentle manner. He felt so very fragile. "Lead the way, archmaester."

Marwyn the Mage inclined his head. The lower levels contained a maze. Rhaegar had heard more than one theory regarding their origin. What mattered, of course, was that they would offer some much needed shelter from prying eyes. One had to be rather mad to venture war within the structure. Thankfully for him, his entire bloodline was comprised of such men and women, each of them touched in the head in a different manner. Madness did not frighten him so much as failure.

"How far within are we going?" he asked of the older man, eyeing the dark walls. Even with the flickering light of a torch, the blackness seemed to suck the light into its void.

"Not very far. I doubt anyone shall disturb us, but it is better to be safe than sorry." On that much they agreed.

Once they reached the chosen place, Rhaegar put Jon in a small circle of salt while Tymor busied himself placing candles without the circle. The archmaester handed him a cup. "Drink, Your Majesty. This is the draught I spoke of."

He took it and placed it to his lips, taking a moment to familiarise himself with the scent. The taste of it was no more pleasant than the fumes it emanated. Rhaegar forced himself to down it in large gulps despite his throat constricting around the flowing liquid. "How long will it take to fall under its power?"

"Not overly so, I imagine. Given the nature of our situation, I took the liberty of dosing it differently. If Your Majesty would be kind enough to step into the circle. We shall wait until the time is right."

Shrugging out of his jerkin, Rhaegar allowed the garment to fall to the ground before he followed the man's direction. Once within the circle, he lowered himself until he lied upon his back and stared fixedly at the pitch black ceiling. There might have been arches there, but he could detect so very little beyond the murkiness of a lightless realm. Was that what awaited him on the other side?

He wishes he knew where Jon was. Whether he was frightened? Whether he put a brave face on? If he was anything like his mother, he would. And then he would like to be able to offer the boy comfort. To help him rid himself of all night terrors. In spite of it all, he stared at the emptiness before him, keeping all those thoughts to himself.

"You may experience some confusion, Your Majesty. Pray do not be alarmed. That is both natural and required."Shadows moved about him as the voice droned on. "I will now bind the circles together with a chain of quicksilver." It was comforting, in some measure, to know what was being done to him. For him.

His eyelids grew heavy, the weight too much to sustain. They dropped. A more profound curtain fell over his senses. He could not even detect a faint hint of light. "Can you move your fingers, Your Majesty?" He did so, or he thought he did. "Good. 'Tis all going as it should. Tymor, bring me the salt."

It appeared that he too would have to be afforded the same protection as Jon. If it was effective enough for one, than he supposed it should aid the other as well. Unlike Jon, though, he found himself disagreeing with the taste. It burned against his tongue, almost as though someone had set the appendage aflame. "Pray do not move, Your Majesty. Though I know it to be uncomfortable, it is necessary." The sting softened. "There now; that should do it. The weight doubled. "Tymor, place the candles." The sound of movement filled his ears.

"Your Majesty, I shall place a candle in your hand. If all is well, there shall be light for you on the other side. It would be best to bring the child back before the candle burns out. Who knows what lies waiting in the dark?" He did not like the sound of that one whit. Alas, what could he do? His hands were moved without difficulty. It was so very strange to be so removed from one's own self. It was almost as though two separate persons were one in that moment.

"I expect you hear little more than murmurs now," the voice said; it sounded far off. "It shan't be long until you are lost to the world." And with any help from the gods it would not be long until he was back. Rhaegar forced the last of his apprehension away. He put himself in the hands of the archmaester and whatever gods were listening.

Death, or his own mock-death, was not quite as frightening as he suspected it would be. Certainly, he felt as though he floated upon weightless air and that a single twitch could see him plummeting to the ground, breaking upon impact. There was a tension stemming from that; yet not so much that it disturbed the stillness. He took a moment to contemplate the pleasantness of it all before pushing it away.

One could not kill what was already dead. With a mental jerk, he broke away from the cloak of comfort. To his relief, 'twas not the bare ground that came up to meet him, but rather a grass field bathed in moonlight. The soft glow of the round heavenly body painted the high walls of what looked to him like his very home. He started waking before he was even conscious of it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently, this girl still has it. Okay, so I may or may not have made a deal with the devil, but at least we advanced the plot (somewhat) and we're on our way to Theon's Wonderland where your neighbour at the table might just have his throat slit.
> 
> Enjoy, everyone.


	3. The State of Man Does Change and Vary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from: [source](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/lament-makaris)

 

 

 

 

 

 

The mire he’d sunken into encased his limbs, demonstrating surprising strength in its grip. Favoured with an abundance of stubbornness, however, Rhaegar remained struggling against whatever thought to impede his progress. Cimmerian space aside, he brutishly forced the shackles of his tenebrific prison. It was an arduous process, made more so by the disorientation he felt upon the lack of sight and sound. It would have been not unwelcomed to have some manner of creature scuttle about. At least that meant he was not alone.

Alas, he was to continue in a dissatisfied state until he managed the proposed feat, feeling the darkness slowly loosen its hold, almost as though the tendrils were reluctant. Momentary relief coursed through him. With freedom came too a small flickering light, a candle’s ghost, he did not doubt, making the journey with him. He lifted up the tiny flame, allowing the glaucous light to dance along the constraints of its reach. He could make out no more than the distance between himself and his next pace, but then there seemed to be little need for such. Naught around him indicated he might come across another creature.

He continued traversing the length of what looked to be a barren stretch of land, made of rough sand and large pebbles, almost as though stopping ant manner of life was its goal. Little wonder then that no plant grew as far as the eye could see and that no beast happened along. Ahead there was only darkness and to his back the veil endured. The archmaester had said as much, that the portion meant to lead from one world to the other had little to recommend it other than safety. He would pass it with nary a trouble and only then would the true journey begin. That Rhaegar understood to be a reprieve. A moment separated from all time, meant to give him a chance to build his store of strength. He saw to that even as the gravel crunched beneath his sturdy boots, its song the only sound to be made out.

According to the tales he’d heard thus far, he ought to come across some manner of bridge before long, a thin, rail-like line to be walked with utmost care. Some said the murky waters housed beasts of all sorts which would strive to distract the one who passed. Some claimed them to simply be a river of sorts, of no particular distinction other than its location. The bridge would be marked by a single tall post upon which dangled a lantern, its light as bright as one pleased. In fact, Rhaegar rather thought he could see a bright dot ahead, small shivery thing that flickered to and fro. He licked his lips, throat clogging upon some unpleasant taste. The burn lingered even as he persisted with his careful tread. The tiny light grew in size until he could make out a first narrow step. The bridge had to have some structure it rested upon. All the better, should he fall, there would be aught to grab onto.

Holding the candle aloft, he crossed the distance between him and the bridge, surprised to hear the wood groan beneath the weight of his boot when it touched the plank. It was the single sound, sonorous in the blackness, like a trumpet, alerting all and sundry to his arrival. He tensed, eyeing the wall of darkness ahead. But there was naught, no figure emerging, no danger crawling from the depths of the gloomy realm. He took another step, in spite of the unease settling in firmly within his chest cavity. The more steps one took, the easier it became, he noted with a small smidgeon of relief. The wood creaked and trembled, but did not give way.

Advancing at a slow pace, Rhaegar glanced by and by at the water flowing beneath him. The light coruscated off the lazily flowing stream. There was an illecebrous quality to the water, so very dark and mysterious, almost as though it called his name. Or rather whispered it, an unspoken promise held all within that one word, a word he associated with his very own person. But nay, he could not give his impulses free rein. These waters were treacherous, meant to lead him off the path he ought to follow. Wrenching himself away from the alluring sight, he forced his feet into swift moment, praying the Seven the wood was not druxy and he would not find himself drowning within moments.

A noise other than the song of half-rotted wood filled his ears. Its strength faded as it repeated over and over again, almost as though whatever made the ruckus knew it had alerted him. Pausing, Rhaegar glanced over the edge of the bridge a second time and froze.

Cresting the dark waters were faces. Not one or two, disparate and lorn, but many, masks of apathy and indifference. His eyes roamed the crowd until surprisingly he found a familiar gaze. The gorgonizing moment was at an end. Not only for himself. The faces, presumably attached to bodies, closed in around him. The candle, he realised a moment later, that had to have been what saw the arrival of so many in such a short time. They could no doubt sense its flame was of another world. Aye, some spirits yet had strength for such.

Eyeing the man who’d been his father in life, Rhaegar considered the friable nature of their bond. And yet, even with that knowledge in mind, he moved not an inch. The moment of zemblanity endured. A low curse left his lips and he neared the edge, watchful of the figures who in turn edged closer. But his father, as he had done in life, remained out of his reach. Were he to yell out the man’s name, would that disrupt matters beyond what could be borne? He could not take such a chance. 

Kneeling, Rhaegar reached out, his fingers outstretched. “Father,” he spoke the word gently, anxiety easing when he noticed that while he moved none of the creatures below seemed to realise as much. In fact, they acted rather like moths drawn to a flame, not entirely aware of anything other than the allure of the light. He frowned. There had to be some way to reach him.          

“You shouldn’t do that.” He drew back his had with alacrity, not without a hint of remorse, feeling as a child caught in mischief might. Rhaegar peered towards the source of the noise. Unabashed, the figure emerged from the shadows to stand before him in all its glory. “There is no helping them in any event. And you ought not to be here in the first place.”

Rising to his full height, Rhaegar regarded the apparition with consternation. “I fail to see how that concerns you.” There was something not quite right about the shade, apart, of course, from the very obvious resemblance she bore to his erstwhile wife.

“I could aid.” The words trickled by, their power almost tangible. “After all, what else is a wife’s role?”  Had he bore some suspicion before, it crystallised into rock-solid proof at that. Unwilling to antagonise the being, whatever it may be, Rhaegar declined answering. He made to walk past, yet she grabbed hold on his arm, surprisingly strong. “How unkind. I am trying to help and you ignore me.”

“I do not require help,” he bit out, the pain of her grip finally settling into his arm. It was almost as though she pushed blades through his skin. “Let go.” His order was ignored.

“But I think you do,” she disagreed, quite suddenly pressing her whole weight into him. Like a boulder of impressive bulk, she hurled him into the black, icy water running under the bridge. The liquid, putrid and repellent, enveloped him, washing over him. The icy bite stung his limbs, paralysing. No matter how hard he tried to drag himself away from its hold, it held fast.

Above him laughter rang out. “Do you need my help now, do you think?” The overtly taunting vein of the delivery gave him some urge to resist. The shade leaned at the edge of the bridge, pretty face leeched of colour, but not of emotion. She held one hand out, not near close enough for him to reach. “It seems I cannot grab you. Might be if you swam closer.” But the depths were dragging him in already, like a thousand hands, tugging him deeper into death’s embrace. He choked on the acrid tasting water, his limbs still frozen. He should have been able to break free, to swim his way to freedom. Alas, he could not, and in his panic sunk deeper and deeper.

The small light in his hand trembled and flickered, drawing his attention. The dance met a swift end when something broke through the surface of the water. He could feel the ripples around him. And suddenly he was in control of his own limbs once more, arms and legs moving, instinctively, towards his goal. Rhaegar swam, he swam as fast as he could, as though the very hounds of hell have chase and, fortunately enough, was well pleased to discover he’d not been as far from the other bank as he’d thought. Grabbing hold of soft loam and tufts of grass, he dragged himself out of the water, wincing as bright light assaulted his vision.

“That took you long enough.” A stab of something echoed like a warning in his mind, but as soon as his eyes met Lyanna’s he was up on his feet, erasing the distance between them. “Swimming fully clothed? That can’t be too much fun.” She laughed and swatted his hand away as he made to touch her. “Do not get me wet.” Nevertheless, she raised herself on her tiptoes, grabbing hold of his shoulders. He leaned in for a peck, wondering at the coolness of her touch. “You’re shivering.” Her voice was soft, a whisper even.

“The water is rather cold.” He glanced back at the river, noting its depth was oddly reduced. For a moment he could have sworn he’d been sinking. “I think mayhap I have been spending too much time in the water.”

Lyanna gave him a questioning glance, hands moving to the bottom of his tunic. “And so you have by the looks of you. Pale as a ghost.” A tsk followed the words. “I’ve some garments for you just under that tree.” He did not know what tree she spoke of, but nodded, certain the small scare beforehand was at fault for the wooziness.

She managed to somehow peel the tunic off of him, throwing it carelessly to the side. And then she led him to the tree, a strange featureless mass of branches. No leaves in sight, it allowed barren branches to bend down in obeisance. Rhaegar changed, his movements lazy. He could not give as much attention as he’d like to the knots for his eyes drifted over and over again to his companion. She smiled back at him whenever he caught her eye.

There was something though, something about her that did not fit. He finally managed to make himself presentable when she returned to his side, catching his hand with hers. “I am so glad we are here, together. The two of us.” The glints of silver in her light-blue eyes swam merrily along, as though to lend credence to her words. A shiver travelled the length of his spine, the warning barely having time to settle before she spoke once more. “What is it, my love?”

A small chuckle escaped his throat, the sound rough and guttural. “I don’t rightly know,” Rhaegar admitted, chiding himself for a fool. “There’s just something about this day.” He shook his head. He couldn’t explain it no matter how he tried.

“Leave it be then,” Lyanna advised, grabbing hold of his right arm and dragging him along. He’d taken no more than a couple of steps when a vague sort of pain flared to life in his arm. She cried out too, as though the ache radiated within her own limb. But the scream tearing itself out of her throat held an unearthly quality, its pitch high and piercing.

The pain in his arm intensified, transforming into a persistent burn. Lyanna broke away from him, hand curling inward as though it were some manner of parchment suffering the effects of a flame. Dark thick liquid dripped from the charred flesh, the rotted mass reminiscent of moss-attacked wood. A strong taste, like vinegar, exploded on his tongue even as his legs carried him many step backwards from the slowly decaying ruin swaying on her legs. Garbled words left her lips.

He finally knew what had caused his unease. It was not Lyanna and he had no time to lose. The earth beneath his feet softened into sludge, muddy fingers holding down his feet, impeding his escape. He pulled with all his might, desperate. That only earned him a backwards tumble. His back hit the grass or mud or water. Water. Almost as though his eyes had been open, Rhaegar realised he had not, in fact, escaped the secure hold of his aqueous enemy. Strong fingers dug into his right shoulder and arm, the pressure near enough to tear the limb right off.

He had to break free. And he had to be quick about it. He dragged in a watery breath, finding purchase on whatever was beneath his feet.  Wrenching himself free with a muted scream, Rhaegar broke through the surface. He blindly pushed at those around him, trying to carve a path into the immovable mass of people. Fortune seemed to favour him, as the shades, while not responding to his manoeuvring of their own accord, were still easily displaced. He forged ahead until he’d reached the old, rickety bridge. Rhaegar grabbed hold of the edge, trying his best to ignore the pain in his right arm, and hoisted himself up.

The height difference was not so great that he couldn’t defeat it, but victory came with a cost. It seemed that whatever strain he’d put on it, his right arm then protested, the pain enough to make him clutch at the abused limb. It must have been the ghosts, pulling fit to tear the limb off, Rhaegar decided, pushing back wayward strand of hair. He looked about, trying to find a sign of his departed spouse. No such luck. She’d disappeared as sure as she’d appeared unexpectedly. If it had been Elia to begin with, which Rhaegar was not entirely certain it had been.

He thought of Lyanna’s doppelganger, with her blue-grey eyes and the oddness of her quiddity. He should have realised without delay that it was not her. Alas, he’d been easily tricked by whatever sorcery resides in those waters. He glanced down along his smarting arm, at the small light resting in his palm, much like a lone firefly. There was yet some comfort to be found in his lonesome state, he mused, staring at the sky absence stelliferous expanse. The only star rested in his hand, making him feel very nearly cosmogyral. The lucida of some obscured constellation was the only light by which he could guide himself in a gloomy world of mist and shadow.

Treading with care, he somehow managed to find the far end of the bride, his feet meeting solid ground. Alas, much like its other end, great darkness endured at that point, ensuring he could make out little beyond his own person. How he wished there were some way to light up the skies. His kingdom for the blessed light of the moon, Rhaegar quipped to himself with a low sigh. Unable to find another path, he settled for making his way upon the even ground, noting that in spite of a lack of life, there were flagstones artfully put together to form a pathway. In other words, for whichever reason, the creatures of the underworld kept to the blackness and did not venture without, not even to walk the roads of their own realm.

And so it was that following the path, he found himself standing before a couple of pillars. The gargantuan colonnades housed between their pattered and chipped bodies one single slab of stone upon which grew some sort of glaucous moss, small flowers interwoven into the fabric of its body. They were small, white flowers with petals tightly drawn together, their lachrymiform likeness bringing to mind the grief of losing a close someone. They must have a name, he reckoned, one he had long since forgotten. The towering sentinels guarding the stone, verdant lichen and blossoms did not change form in the absence of his stare, nor further faltered. Rhaegar decided he would pass between them and hoped to come to no harm. The flowers he would leave be, content in the knowledge that life sprang eternal.

And so, he made his way further ahead, closing his eyes and ears both to the potential dangers, if only until he managed to find some manner of intelligent life form. The path before him broadened, becoming as though for the footsteps of giants. Rhaegar was not a small man, and had, for most of his life, not felt himself dwarfed in comparison to the various architectural marvels around him. But aught about the wide path warned of a smallness endemic in man, as a creature and mayhap even as a creation. He looked about, for the first time able to see beyond the haze. All about him rose from the dirt splendidly crafted edifices, some of them small, and some great, some shaped in the manner of houses, others resembling temples. But the architecture itself was an old thing, enduring remnants of faded peoples.  Might be the dead merely rested, in their homes of strange proportions, away from the haunted shores of a strangely flowing river. He could hardly blame them.

But how was he to catch even a glimpse of his son upon such a vast stretch of land when he knew not where he himself was? And not a soul by of which he might ask. Not that it had thus far proved to be particularly helpful to run into denizens of the realm of the deceased.      

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
